Until We Meet Again

by Renee Collins

  Lawrence’s brow wrinkles, as if I just spoke in Chinese. I realize those phrases are probably all modern iterations. And The Great Gatsby probably isn’t widely known yet, if it’s even published yet.

  “Things were much more exciting in your time,” I say. “More pure. More honest. More, I don’t know…alive, I guess.”

  His laugh carries a hint of bitterness. “I’m not so sure about that. But here’s hoping things change in the next few years for the better.”

  Like the Great Depression? The Dust Bowl? World War II? All right around the corner. And Lawrence is going to live through them. My heart sinks a little. I give him a quick, sidelong glance, envisioning him in a soldier’s uniform, storming the beaches at Normandy. Chills run over my skin and I shudder involuntarily.

  “You okay?” Lawrence asks, his brow lowering.

  I look away from his gaze. “Fine. Just got cold for a second.”

  Should I warn him? Maybe toss out a subtle “I wouldn’t do much investing in the stock market, if I were you.” Or, “Keep an eye on the Germans. They’re still pissed about World War I, and it’s not over yet. Not even close.”

  I follow the thought through a few scenarios. If I told him, would anyone believe him? “Hey, I met this girl from 2015 on the beach, and she said we should assassinate some German guy named Adolf Hitler.”

  Yeah, right.

  Would it even help Lawrence? Maybe knowing all the crap he’s about to face would make him go crazy. If the world were about to end, would I want to know about it?

  “What’s wrong?” Lawrence asks, breaking my train of thought. “You look scared all of a sudden.”

  I rub my arms, unable to shake the cold. “It’s…really weird to know some of the things that are going to happen in America in the next few decades.”

  Lawrence perks up. “What kind of things?”

  “I feel like I shouldn’t tell you.”

  “Aw, come on! You can’t tease like that.”

  “I’m serious,” I say. “It seems unethical somehow.”

  “All right then. Have it your way. If you won’t tell me about your time, at least tell me more about you. I can’t help but wonder if you’re related to my Uncle Ned through the generations.”

  “I don’t think so. My mom and stepdad rented this place a few months ago. Apparently, it had been sitting empty for forever.”

  “So, you’re not from the North Shore?”

  “No. I hail from the most boring town in the most boring state in the Union.”

  A smile tugs at Lawrence’s lips. “Ohio?”

  I laugh. “How did you guess?”

  “I’m from America too, you know, albeit a slightly earlier version.”

  “Maybe not as much has changed as you think.”

  “Maybe,” he says, his brown eyes shining. “So, what do you do in Ohio? I take it from your clever conversation that you’re being educated?”

  “I guess. When I actually make it to class.”

  “I think that’s swell. A lot of girls I know have no interest in learning. They don’t see the point.”

  “Thank goodness for progress.”

  “You said it. I admire a gal who likes to learn.”

  I shrug, but I feel undeniably light inside at his compliment. We walk in comfortable silence. I steal another glance at him. He looks sharp in his slacks and linen button shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. That’s probably as casually as they dress in the 1920s. His hair is feathered by the wind in a way that’s effortlessly sexy. I swallow hard.

  I’ve been so preoccupied thinking about this whole 1920s thing that I can tell I’m not being myself.

  “So,” I say, going for casual banter. “You write poetry, huh?”

  “I suppose. A few scribbles. I’m not too swell at it.”

  “You’re pretty swell. I mean, you’re no Whitman, but I liked what I heard.”

  “Well, thank you. Like I said, my old man thinks it’s a waste of time. He says I should focus on preparing for college and then law school.”

  “A five-year plan, eh? Sounds familiar.”

  “Something like that.” There’s an edge of sadness to his voice. “It’s not that I don’t want to go, necessarily. I just…I never had the choice, you see. My path has been laid out for me since I was born. Harvard, like my father. Law school, like my father. Work in corporate law, like my father. Marry a society girl my father approves of. Have sons. Throw polite parties at my summer home on the North Shore.”

  “What if you just tell him you don’t want to do all that? Tell him you want to find your own way.”

  “If only it were that easy,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “He can’t force you.”

  “You don’t know my father. He’s a powerful man. Ever since my mother died last year, it’s like I’ve become his employee, rather than his son.”

  I’m starting to see why Lawrence was brooding on the beach that first night. “I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a parent.”

  He concentrates on the ground as we walk. “I don’t mean to bring the mood down.”

  “After what you’ve gone through, I’d say you have every right.”

  “I’m fine. I just wish I could talk to him, you know? And that he’d actually listen to what I want. Of course, you understand having little choice in life, being a woman.”

  I feel a twinge of guilt at moping over my First World Problems. “Actually, things are pretty equal between men and women in the future. I can do anything I want.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “I guess. Sometimes I think that’s part of the problem—too many choices.”

  “I wish I had your problems.”

  “Yeah, well, part of me wishes I had yours. I wish someone would just tell me what I’m good at and what I should be.”

  “You’re good at painting,” he offers.

  “Am I? You’ve never even seen my stuff.”

  “I want to see it. I’m sure you’re excellent.”

  “That’s sweet, but for all you know, I royally suck.” I kick at a pebble in front of me. “Maybe if I knew where I truly had talent, I’d know what I wanted to do with my life.”

  “It’s official then,” Lawrence says. “If we find a way to travel into each other’s time, we’ll swap places.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We shake on it. Then Lawrence points to the sandy path ahead. “Here’s our chance. There’s the trail.” He extends his hand for mine. “Shall we?”

  I pause at the foot of the dirt path, then set my hand in his. “Let’s do this.”

  A few steps on the trail, and nothing has changed. Our eyes meet.

  “This is scary,” I whisper.

  Lawrence smiles. “Well, you’re still here.”

  A few more steps. Still a solid entity.

  “Dude,” I say, eyes wide. “It’s working.”

  His face bright with excitement, Lawrence breaks into a run down the path, pulling me along behind him. But before we’ve gone six feet, a fuzzy shimmer falls over him. His grip goes soft. We run a little farther, and the effect intensifies. Lawrence meets my gaze, crestfallen, and then disappears.

  Though the first test of his theory failed, Lawrence is determined to test every angle. We even walk out to the tip of the point, but it doesn’t change the outcome. We make our way over to the other point too. I don’t think it will be any different, but I don’t say as much. Maybe because a part of me wants to keep up our conversation, and the long hike along the shore will do just that.

  But as I’d thought, the other trail is no different. After more than two hours of walking, we end up back on the beach. Lawrence brings some sandwiches and fruit from his house—or my house, I guess�
�and we eat on the sand.

  “So, I guess this is it,” Lawrence says, taking a bite of apple. “I can only see you here on this beach. Nowhere else.”

  I nod. “It’s weird. Like some cosmic force is trying to keep us apart. I guess this is the universe’s way of telling me I’d make a really awful flapper.”

  In spite of my joking around, the strange sadness of the situation pricks at me.

  Lawrence rotates his apple in front of him, examining it. “Who knows? Maybe the universe is trying to bring us together.”

  I look at him sidelong. His dark-brown eyes, unembarrassed by his words, meet mine. I try to play it cool.

  “Saying stuff like that doesn’t do anything to refute my ‘this is all an elaborate scheme to ask me out’ theory.”

  He raises a sly eyebrow. “So far, I’d say my plan is working pretty well.”

  I bump him with my elbow, pressing down a smile.

  He grins and takes another bite of his apple. “I do have one other theory to try out… I don’t know if you’re up for it.”

  “If it involves me taking off my clothes, you can forget it.”

  He looks both shocked and amused by my words. I guess it’s a pretty racy joke for a 1920s kid.

  “Tell me your theory,” I say, redirecting the conversation.

  “Well…what if this all has something to do with the ocean? The currents. The tides.”

  I look out at the water, considering this. “It does have a certain logical symbolism to it. What are you thinking?”

  “What if we swim out and see how far we can go?”

  “You really like swimming, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but it’s not that. I really think there might be something to this.”

  I consider for a moment. I’m not the strongest swimmer. But something about his theory intrigues me.

  “It’s worth a try, I guess.”

  “Excellent.” He stands. “Let’s run to put on our swim clothes. Meet you here in five minutes.”

  “Aha! So it does involve me undressing!”

  Lawrence laughs. “Aw, go change, would ya?”

  We walk together through the bushes until he vanishes. My stomach twists as I watch him fade to nothing. Even though we’ve tested it a dozen times, I can’t help but worry that this dematerializing was the last, and that this weird crack in time will close forever.

  I rush up to my room, wanting to get back to the beach as soon as possible. Tugging out my overstuffed drawer, I survey my pathetic selection of swimwear. I settle on a black bikini, toss on my swim dress, and run downstairs. As my hand brushes down the banister, it sinks in that Lawrence is here. Right now. Separated by almost a hundred years. The thought quickens my heartbeat. I try to calm down on the walk back to the beach.

  Lawrence is waiting for me in those adorably short, vintage swim trunks of his.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “Yep.” I pull off my swim dress. “Ready.”

  Lawrence’s eyes widen a little. “Holy Toledo,” he says breathlessly.

  I guess a bikini is also scandalous for the 1920s. This awareness pleases me.

  “Fashion changes a lot over the next hundred years,” I say.

  “You ain’t kiddin’.”

  “Okay, Lawrence, eyeballs back in sockets.”

  He grins. “For some reason, I’m more anxious than ever to try to travel to your time.”

  I whack his arm.

  We wade out together, wobbling a little on the rocks under our bare feet, but soon it’s deep enough to swim. The water is cold and goose bumps rise on my skin. The current pulls against me like a promise. Waves bob us up and down, slapping lightly against our shoulders.

  “This probably isn’t the best time to say that I’m not a great swimmer,” I call over the rush of surf.

  A warm, firm hand wraps around mine. Lawrence smiles. “I’ll watch out for you.”

  We swim on. Soon my feet can no longer touch the bottom. A dark feeling settles over me. This is not good. Who knows what could be swimming around beneath my feet, watching me from below?

  “Do you know if there are any sharks in these waters?”

  Lawrence laughs. “Don’t worry, Cassandra. I’ve got you.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  The waves grow stronger the deeper we go, the closer we move to the breakers. Lawrence makes a few strong strokes, letting go of my hand for a moment.

  “You haven’t disappeared yet,” he calls. “This is the farthest we’ve gotten from the beach. I think we might have found the solution!”

  I strain to see him over the white peaks of waves. Water keeps splashing against my face. But every time I rub it away, I sink a little. I don’t like feeling so powerless, so vulnerable. Then, one particularly large wave engulfs my head completely. I thrash to the surface, coughing and sputtering.

  “Lawrence, I want to go back.”

  No answer. Nothing but the crash of surf.

  “Lawrence?”

  Wiping my eyes, I look in every direction. Combined with the up and down of the waves, it’s a dizzying, chaotic feeling. But the only thing I can see is the surface of the water. He’s gone. Panic seeps into my chest like ink. I’m alone out here in the middle of the ocean. My legs are tired. The waves are too strong. I’m going to go under.

  “Lawrence!” I shout. “Lawrence!”

  Another wave smacks against my head, dragging me down. Startled, I release the air in my mouth in a burst of bubbles. The water is an opaque indigo. Salt burns my eyes. My lungs ache for breath. I feel my body sinking like a stone.

  Chapter 9

  Cassandra

  My body twists. I don’t know which way is up and which is down. I flail my arms and legs, searching for some semblance of balance. But that only seems to drag me down farther.

  And then, just as my lungs are about to burst, a pair of arms wraps around my waist. My body rights itself and I kick up as hard as I can. My head bursts out of the water and I gasp. Wet hair covers my face. I wipe it aside, coughing.

  “Cassandra! Are you okay?” Lawrence’s voice crackles, soft and distant. And yet I still feel his arms. I nod, panting for breath. I can hardly make out his face.

  “How did you see me?” I ask, shaking from the whole experience.

  “I don’t really know,” he admits. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m okay. Let’s just go back.”

  We swim a few strong kicks. The thrust of the waves propels us. As we draw closer to the shore, the blurry, translucent Lawrence fills in with color and form until he’s back to himself. We swim hard—not speaking. Then finally we reach the shore. I crawl up on shaky limbs and collapse onto the sand.

  I lie there for a moment, my cheek pressed to the sand. Waves rush over my feet and legs, but I don’t move. Lawrence lies on his back beside me.

  “Well,” he says, his voice halted and tired. “That’s that, then.”

  When we’ve caught our breath, we wrap in the towels Lawrence brought and sit back in our spot on the beach.

  “I still don’t know how you saw me under the water,” I say, hugging the warm towel close to me. “I could barely see you even above the surface.”

  Lawrence shakes his head. “I’m so sorry to put you through that.”

  “It’s not your fault I’m a crappy swimmer.”

  He rubs his temples. “When we got that far out, I was so sure we’d discovered the solution. I got excited and let go of your hand. But then, I couldn’t see you… I thought you’d drowned.”

  “I was worried about that myself for a minute.”

  He puts his hand on my back. “Cassandra, can you forgive me? If I’d known, I never would have suggested that we—”

  “Don’t apologize. The waves were stronger t
han I thought, that’s all.”

  “But I am sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, Lawrence.”

  He sighs. “Well, I feel awful grummy about it anyhow.”

  This makes me smile. “You say the weirdest words.”

  The corner of his mouth turns up. “You’re one to talk.”

  I bump him with my shoulder, and we both laugh.

  We’re sitting close. Little more than a few inches apart. The impulse to scoot closer and rest my head on his shoulder tugs at me, but I resist. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking: that we’ve run out of scientific reasons to stay on the beach. It’s clear—there’s no way around it. This beach and this beach alone is where our worlds overlap. So what now?

  Lawrence draws a line in the sand with his finger. “So I guess the day’s over.”

  I swallow hard. “Yeah, it is.”

  “And we know all we can know about…this.” He motions to me and the beach.

  “I suppose so.”

  “I don’t know what to make of it,” he says with a sigh. “I really don’t. What does it mean? Why did this happen? What are we supposed to do about it? Maybe we should tell someone.”

  “And who would believe us?”

  “We can prove it. We’ll show them how you disappear on the path.”

  I imagine myself telling Mom or Jade. How could that possibly go well? “I don’t know,” I say. “That seems like a bad idea. I say we keep it to ourselves for now.”

  Lawrence nods. “You’re probably right.”

  I exhale heavily. “Maybe we should be more careful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. What if it’s dangerous somehow?”

  Lawrence turns to face me. “You mean…you think we should stay away from each other?”

  “I don’t know what I think, okay? This whole scenario freaks me out.”

  “What if we try and forget that then,” he says.

  “What do you mean?”

  His gaze is intense. “What if we forget that I’m from nineteen twenty-five and you’re from two thousand fifteen.”

  “How can we forget that?” I point toward the bushes. “How can I forget that you dissolve into the air if you try to leave this beach?”